Any of your better cheese experts will tell you there’s nothing that pairs better with a fist-sized hunk of Government Cheese than a couple of British ghost stories, one almost certainly made up, the other definitely made up. Warm up your false vocal chords for some fake ghost sounds, and learn more about the chain of government fuckery that ended with the son of a bitch Ronald Reagan offloading warehouses of third-rate Velveeta to his most hated enemy, Poor People!

My freshman year in college I (Brian) got like, Freshman Drunk at a house party where a home video was playing. My friend Jeff appeared in the video several times, and apparently every time he was onscreen I would slur, from the living room floor, "there's Jeff." The story of Gef (he's Welsh!) the Talking Mongoose seems not dissimilar, except the house where it took place was definitely harder to get to, from the sounds of things. Good thing College Brian wasn't addicted to drugs, or he might have wound up at Narconon, a "drug rehab" program that's "definitely not a Scientology front" and is surely "not responsible for the deaths of numerous patients over the years due to its foundation on utter quackery spouted off by an oily maniac." Dodged a bullet there!

We don't like to brag or anything, but the people behind Madness Madness have accomplished some pretty incredible feats of combat prowess, to the point where several hit movies have been based on our exploits: Avatar, Avengers: Endgame, Avatar: The Way of Water, Titanic, Star Wars: Episode VII - The Force Awakens, Avengers: Infinity War, Spider-Man: No Way Home, Jurassic World, The Lion King, The Avengers, Furious 7, Top Gun: Maverick, Frozen II, and of course Barbie. That’s more than $27 billion at the box office just from the ones we can name off the tops of our heads, so honestly we’ve got nothing to learn from Frank Dux, a fight choreographer and semi-professional liar whose “life story,” the 1988 Jean-Claude Van Damme breakout “Bloodsport,” pulled in a mere puff of dust to the tune of $11.8 million worldwide, which I don’t even think is enough money to wipe your ass with these days.

Nonetheless we’ll hear about this valor-stealing boomer schmuck, then imagine him dropped into Cassadaga, Florida (formerly New York), the fortune-telling capital of the world, mouthing off to a series of increasingly irritable palm readers until the ghost of Patrick Swayze manifests and Road House roundhouses him so hard he lands in a different ZIP code from his medals of honor, which turn out to be made of cardboard and cellophane anyway. Join us, won’t you?